THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SPIRIT 


OF  THE 


STORM 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


By 

DAVID  IRVINQ  DOBSON 


PETER  G.  BOYLE  :  Publisher 

267-275  West  17th  Street,  New  York  City 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY  DAVID  IRVING  DOBSON 


CONTENTS 

PAtfE 

MY  WORDS  9-10 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  STORM 11-12 

A  TOILER'S  PLAINT 13-14 

To  ONE  IN  BONDAGE 15 

ONE  NIGHT  IN  AUTUMN 16 

THE   SUICIDES    17 

MY  SONG 18 

To  THE  MUSE 19 

To  MAXIM  GORKY 20 

RECREATION 21 

WITHERING  ROSES  21 

THE  MASQUERADER 22 

To  A  YOUTHFUL  TOILER 23 

To  THE  MORNING  STAR 24 

' ' CIVILIZATION"    25 

SONG  OF  THE  WAGE  SLAVE 26 

A  WISH 26 

SPRING  MUSINGS 27 

LAST  NIGHT   28 

DEAD  LOVES   28 

ON  THE  RIVER  29 

OCTOBER    30 

THY  SONG  31 

ASPIRATION 32 

THE  CALL  33 

0  MOTHER  34-35 

THE  HEART'S  SONG 36 

To  THE  WIND 37 

LADY  IN  WHITE 38 

A  SONG  OF  TODAY 39 

THE  SEAMSTRESS 40 

EXIT  ROMANTICISM  41 

LIBERTY'S  PLIGHT  42 

THE  UNEMPLOYED  .  43 


CONTENTS— Ccmtinued 

PAGE 

IN  MEMORIAM 44 

A  SONG  45 

AT  EVENTIDE   46 

RESURRECTION    46 

A  TOILER'S  SPRINGTIME 47 

THE  GARDEN 4? 

VANQUISHED   48 

PERHAPS    49 

WHEN  I  AM  GONE 50 

To  THE  BROOK 51 

AUTUMN  ON  THE  ROAD 52 

THE  ROCK  AND  THE  STORM  53 

AFTERWARDS    t>4 

THE  PIANIST 55 

THE  PEDDLER  56 

AVERBUCH    57-58 

HITCH  YOUR  WAGON   59 

LAMENTATION   60 

SPRING  CAME 61 

AN  AUTUMN  DAY 61 

A  PASTORAL ... 62 

' '  SOCIETY  LADIES  TO  FIGHT  RADICALISM  "  63 

THE  RUSSIAN  SHADOW 64 

FLATBUSH    65 

WHERE  To  ? 66 

DANIEL  DE  LEON   67 

THEY  WHO  WEEP  68 

KINDRED  SPIRITS   68 

NATURE    69 

VIGIL    69 

OCTOBER  IDYLL  70-71 

WE  HAVE  Nor  FAILED 72 

SOUL  OF  A  SHOPKEEPER 73 

' '  OPEN  FOR  DAILY  MEDITATION  "  74 

THE  IRISH  MARTYRS 75-76 

SILENCE  77 

IN  MEMORY  OF  HORACE  TRAUBEL 78 

MODERN  LOVE 79 

SUNSET                                                                        . .  80 


CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

THE  MARCH  WIND 81 

SPRING  SONG 82 

JOHN  REED 83 

IN  WARTIME  84 

FIRST  LOVE  85 

NIGHT  IN  CHICAGO 86 

AWAITING  A  CHILD 87 

THE  MEADOWLARK  AND  THE  POET 88-89 

BOY  AND  MAN 90 

AUTUMN 91 

TREAD  OF  THE  FROST 92 

LYRIC    93 

"A  WIND-TOSSED   ROSE-LEAF"— Hafiz    94 

MY  ESTATE 95 

To  DEATH  .  96 


FOREWORD 
By  FLOYD  DELL, 

I  write  these  few  words,  not  by  way  of  undertaking 
to  assess  the  value  of  my  friend 's  poems  for  readers  who, 
after  all,  must  decide  that  question  for  themselves,  but 
rather  in  order  to  express  my  views  upon  the  subject: 
"Why  Read  Poetry ? "  It  seems  to  me  that  all  of  us  who 
read  poetry  do  so  for  the  same  reason  that  some  of  us 
write  it:  because  we  can  not  endure  being  imprisoned 
within  the  confining  walls  of  Here  and  Now.  Poetry  is 
not  the  only  liberator  from  such  imprisonment;  but  its 
wings  are  strong ;  and  for  those  of  us  who  do  not  get  too 
dizzy  it  can  take  us  far  above  the  earth  and  show  us,  in 
the  perspective  which  of  old  the  gods  were  thought  to 
enjoy,  the  human  miseries  by  which  we  are  afflicted. 

Poets  are  traditionally  supposed  (by  "red-blooded" 
people)  to  be  continually  bemoaning  their  unhappy  fate. 
The  truth  is  that  red-blooded  people  indulge  in  their 
feverish  and  largely  meaningless  activities,  in  order  not 
to  have  any  time  to  contemplate  their  own  unhappy 
fate — the  realization  of  which  would  be  unendurable. 
The  poet  is  braver ;  he  can  face  the  truth  about  his  fate. 
And  he  has  that  courage  precisely  because  he  can  see 
himself,  from  high  above  and  from  far  off,  as  one  of 
many.  So  that  when  he  speaks  for  himself  he  is — in  the 
degree  of  his  perception — speaking  for  others.  It  is  for 
this  reason  that  when  we  can  not  write  poetry  we  read 
it.  We  find  ourselves,  in  our  most  secret  moods,  mirrored 
in  another's  poems. 

The  poet  reveals  our  hiddenmost  hopes  and  fears  to 
us.  And  conversely,  those  who  read  poetry  are  those 
who  are  debarred  only  by  some  technical  limitation  from 
writing  it.  They  are  potential  poets.  Hence  the  poet 
has  always  in  a  sense,  fellow-poets  for  an  audience.  And 
he  pleases  them  to  the  degree  in  which  he  utters  for  them 
their  unwritten  poems. 


The  Here  and  Now  in  which  mankind  is  imprisoned 
has  never,  it  would  seem,  been  more  irksome  to  the  im 
patient  soul  than  since  the  introduction  of  machinery. 
It  seems  that  we  can  bear  almost  anything  better  than 
our  nineteenth  and  twentieth  century  servitude  to  the 
machine. 

Poets,  no  matter  how  gloomy  a  view  of  human  fate 
they  took,  used  to  find  many  things  to  be  incidentally 
enthusiastic  about — such  as  flowers,  and  stars,  and  beauti 
ful  women.  But  the  flowers  are  being  pushed  further 
and  further  out  of  sight  by  the  huge  extensions  of  city 
brick  and  mortar;  the  stars  are  more  and  more  hidden 
from  our  gaze  by  factory  smoke;  and  beautiful  women 
no  longer  seen  as  the  consolations  of  a  dreary  life,  but 
rather  as  fellow-victims,  are  quite  as  likely  to  evoke  pity 
as  admiration.  Thus  poetry  becomes  less  and  less  calcu 
lated  to  give  immediate  cheer ;  even  in  its  more  ostensibly 
gay  moods,  it  has  an  undertone  of  mocking  irony.  But  it 
has  a  deeper  comfort,  which  all  those  who  have  suffered, 
and  are  not  afraid  to  remember  it,  must  ever  be  grate 
ful  for. 

But  the  machine  age  has  done  more  than  make  us 
rebelliously  unhappy ;  it  has  shown  us  the  promise  of  es 
cape.  And  that  promise  gives  more  and  more,  to  the 
poetry  of  today,  a  tone  of  hope,  of  faith,  of  ultimate 
certitude.  Man  will  always  desire  more  beauty  and 
happiness  than  any  world  can  offer ;  but  he  need  not  be 
restricted  to  such  poor  desires  as  vainly  afflict  him  now. 
The  time  will  come  when  our  poetry,  with  its  rages  of 
rebellion  against  the  conventions  of  property  and  sex, 
will  seem  queer  and  rather  meaningless:  but  in  that 
free  world  of  the  future,  poets  will  rage  still,  against  the 
bondage  of  the  Here  and  Now — and  those  who  can  not 
write  poems  for  themselves  will  borrow  gladly  these 
same  airy  wings  of  escape. 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


MY  WORDS 

t--' 

My  words  are  the  echoes  of  struggle, 

The  sound  of  the  sweatshop  and  mart; — 

Written  in  tears  of  a  wage  slave 
And  wrung  from  the  depths  of  his  heart. 

I  wrote  when  my  voice  was  too  tender 
To  cry  against  all  earthly  wrong; 

And  I  wept  as  I  wrote  in  my  anguish, 
The  lines  of  my  sorrowful  song. 

My  text  is  not  taken  from  ball  room 

Or  palace  of  those  who  are  gay ; 
I'd  rather  these  lines  were  a  heart-throb 

To  echo  the  life  of  today  .    .    . 

To  echo  the  lives  of  the  toilers 
Who  carry  the  burdens  of  earth ; — 

While  those  whom  they  love  are  ill  nourished 
And  curse  the  sad  day  of  their  birth. 

I've  toiled  since  the  days  of  my  childhood 
In  shops  and  in  factory  hells ; 


[9] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


And  the  sorry  result  of  my  labor 
My  careworn  countenance  tells. 

I  have  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  lowly, 
Where  sunshine  is  awfully  rare ; 

Where  babes  in  their  cradles  must  perish 
Because  of  the  pestilent  air. 

I  have  lived  and  hoped  and  struggled 
For  freedom  that  seemed  so  remote; — 

And  when  I  was  wearied  and  downcast 
I  stayed  in  my  hallroom  and  wrote. 

I  wrote  of  the  life  all  about  me, 

The  life  that  I  knew  ah,  too  well ; — 

A  life  that  was  full  of  endurance 
Or  all  of  the  tortures  of  hell. 


Hence  I  ask  no  forgiveness  for  writing 
In  words  that  are  gruesome  and  gray; 

And  I  hope  that  my  words  may  help  hasten 
The  brighter  and  happier  day  .   .   . 


[10] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


The  night  had  cast  its  shadows  far  and  wide, 
And  myriad  crystals  shone  in  grand  array; 
And  slowly  wending  its  ethereal  way, 

The  moon,  like  sweet  young  blushing  bride, 
Did  bathe  the  world  in  subtle  blue  and  gray. 

The  woodland  lay  enraptured  in  sweet  sleep, 
A  sacred  temple  of  sweet  Nature's  art; 
The  singing  brook  had  ope  'd  to  me  its  heart, 

While  somewhere  in  a  tree  a  bird  did  weep, 
And  to  the  night  did  saddest  tale  impart. 

I  wandered  close  beside  the  singing  brook, 
And  listened  to  its  quaint  and  plaintive  lay; 
A  mortal  soul  who,  weary  of  the  day, 

Sought  peace  within  this  sweet  and  lonesome  nook, 
To  banish  all  discordant  thoughts  away. 

In  silent  thoughts  and  meditation  lost, 
I  pondered  o'er  the  problems  of  the  world; 
Life's  blood-stained  banners  were  to  me  un 
furled, 


[11] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


And  in  my  heart  I  wept  upon  the  cost : 
The  countless  lives  into  oblivion  hurled. 

A  voice  within  me  seemed  to  question  "Why!" 
"Why  all  this  struggle  and  this  endless  race; 
And  why,  the  everlasting  tear-soiled  face, 

The  hollow  cheek  and  weeping  sunken  eye, 
The   falsehood's   honor   and  the  truth's   dis 
grace?" 

And  from  the  depths  emerged  a  mystic  form, 
Its  eyes  were  large  and  deep ;  its  hair  long 

white; 
It  was  a  spirit  groping  in  the  night ; 

Which  bore  forebodings  of  a  coming  storm, 
That  must  arrive  and  set  the  world  aright. 


[12] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


A  TOILER'S  PLAINT 

You  may  sing  of  sunshine  and  flowers, 
Of  the  beauty  and  joy  of  spring; 

But  for  me  the  day's  long  hours 
Naught  but  weariness  bring. 

I  weep  when  the  sun  is  shining, 
For  I  know  not  how  this  may  be, 

That  I,  a  man,  am  slaving, 
"While  beasts  in  the  woods  are  free. 

The  birds  that  live  in  the  forests 

Are  happily  soaring  about ; 
They  sing  to  the  glory  of  nature 

As  they  fill  their  loved  one's  mouth. 

The  bees  that  hum  in  the  meadow 
Give  praise  to  the  glorious  sun ; 

They  embrace  and  kiss  the  flowers 
'Till  the  livelong  day  is  done. 

While  I,  who  am  made  in  "God's  image," 
Am  sweating  my  life  away ; 


[13] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


And  I  long  for  the  night's  fair  bosom, 
While  I  hate  and  I  curse  the  day. 

I  curse  the  day  with  its  noises, 
Its  hurry,  and  worry,  and  wrath; 

For  the  best  of  my  life  has  it  taken 
And  leaves  me  a  prey  unto  Death. 


[14] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO   ONE  IN  BONDAGE 

Young,  charming,  soul-stirring  birdling, 

Beating  thy  frail,  bleeding  wing   'gainst  the 

bars; 
Vainly  attempting  to  cast  off  thy  fetters, 

And  soar  on  thy  spirit-wings  up  to  the  stars! 

i 
Lured  by  the  hope  of  appeasing  thy  hunger, 

Didst  barter  thy  soul  for  a  handful  of  grain; 
Never  suspecting  the  cage  and  its  trapdoor, 

Never  a  thought  of  its  bringing  thee  pain. 

* 

Ah,  how  I  pity  thee,  child  of  my  sorrow, 
Sister  in  bondage,  I,  too,  feel  thy  pain; 

Would  we  had  strength  enough  to  break  the 

shackles, 
So  that  sweet  freedom  might  crown  us  again. 


[15] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


ONE  NIGHT  IN  AUTUMN 

Sadly  the  night-wind  moans  in  the  tree-tops, 
Weeping  and  howling  in  heart  rending  tone ; 

While  out  of  the  heavens,  teardrops  are  falling, 
Teardrops,  nay,  raindrops  that  pierce  to  the 
bone. 

A  weary  and  ragged  old  woman  sits  huddled 
On  one  of  the  benches  that  stand  in  the  par 

Like  some  wild  beast  that  forever  is  hounded, 
She  seeks  to  conceal  herself  here  in  the  dark. 

And  several  ladies  in  autos  are  passing, 

They  laugh  and  they  chatter  as  they  pass  her 
by: 

But  none  of  them  ever  seem  to  take  notice 
Of  her,  who  will  soon  in  obscurity  die. 

*        #        #        # 

While  sadly  the  night-wind  moans  in  the  treetops, 
Weeping  and  howling  in  heart  rending  tone; 
And  out  of  the  heavens,  teardrops  are  falling, 
Teardrops,  nay,  raindrops  that  pierce  to  the 
bone. 


[16] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  SUICIDES 

Out  of  the  river  of  endless  pain, 

Out  of  the  channels  of  human  wrath ; 
Poverty,  promenading  with  Death, 

Sings  her  mournful,  doleful  refrain. 

* '  Come  with  me,  oh  weary,  sad  souls, 
Come  away,  from  life's  seething  mass; 
I  will  teach  ye,  how  Death  to  caress, 

In  death  are  your  only  goals. ' ' 

And  numberless  multitudes  stagger  along, 
Follow  her  beckoning  unto  that  sphere ; 
Casting  aside  from  them  all  doubt  and  fear, 

They  follow  the  strains  of  her  song 


[17] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


MY  SONG 

'Tis  the  song  of  the  common  life  I  am  singing, 

Oh,  hear  it  my  patient  friend ; 
'Tis  a  message  of  hope  and  love  I  am  bringing, 

Which  the  suffering  must  understand. 

The  end  of  the  sorrowful  days  are  coming, 

The  slaves  of  Mammon  are  up ; 
And  loving  flowers  of  freedom  are  blooming 
In  place  of  that  bitter  cup — 

Of  the  bitter  cup  which  made  life  dreary, 

For  ages  and  ages  past ; 
And  the  unjust  toil  that  makes  men  weary, 

Must  disappear  at  last. 


[18] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  THE  MUSE 

Fair  Muse,  I  pray  thee  leave  me  now, 

And  do  not  thrill  my  care-worn  soul ; 
For  daily  strife  has  numbed  my  brow, 

And  filled  my  heart  with  wheels  that  roll- 
In  factory-dungeon  gray. 

To-day,  I  cannot  think  nor  feel, 
Nor  dream  of  days  when  I'll  rejoice; 

For  ah,  I  am  like  a  factory  wheel, 
And  every  sound's  a  foreman's  voice; 

So  leave  me,  Muse,  I  pray. 

Some  day  when  I  am  by  myself, 
Away  from  noise  and  pain  and  greed; 

Beyond  the  grasp  of  power  and  pelf 
And  engine-wheels  that  fly  and  speed, 

Then  you  may  come  and  stay 


[19] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  MAXIM  GORKY 

Sound  as  the  oak  that  grows  from  ragged  soil, 
Blest  with  a  mind  that  fathoms  life's  queer 
moods ; 

The  counsellor  thou  art  for  those  who  toil, 
The  prophet  thou  of  struggling  multitudes. 

Vainly  the  masters  cast  their  curse  on  thee, 
Longing  to  still  thy  brave  heart's  fiery  throb; 

Thou  the  forerunner  of  sweet  liberty, 
Defender  of  the  ones  who  sigh  and  sob. 

Sing  on !  My  angel  poet.    Thy  good  song 
Thrills  every  heart  that  feels  its  melodies; 

Sing  on !  And  in  the  hopeful  days  along, 
Humanity  shall  live  thy  harmonies. 


[20] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

RECREATION 

Tonight,  my  soul,  we  two  shall  wander  free, 
Eemoved  from  earth 's  discordant,  bitter  woe ; 
And  far  from  sorrow's  highway  let  us  go 
And  drink  the  muse 's  nectar  lavishly. 
'Tis  but  a  moment  that  we  steal  from  life 
When  you  and  I  appoint  an  hour  to  meet; 
And,  ah!  this  stolen  moment  is  most  sweet; 
It  bids  me  live  away  from  endless  strife 
And  bids  me  rise  above  all  grave  defeat. 

WITHERING  ROSES 

This  morning  while  hurrying  onward, 
To  reach  my  grim  factory  hell, 

I  saw  in  the  dust  of  the  pavement 
A  rose  that  was  sweet  ere  it  fell. 

It  lay  there  unnoticed,  forsaken, 
Its  petals  were  crushed  and  forlorn ; 

And  gone  was  its  once  youthful  ardor, 
And  gone  was  the  tint  it  had  worn. 

And  I  thought  of  the  numberless  roses 
That  wither  away  in  the  dust — 

The  children  that  slave  in  the  workshops 
And  sell  their  young  lives  for  a  crust. 

[21] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  MASQUERADER 

At  times  I  feel  as  though  an  inward  voice 
From  out  my  secret  heart  doth  whisper  low; 
It  queries  " Mortal  man  why  sigh'st  thou  so? 

Canst  thou  not  live  and  in  thy  life  rejoice?" 

"See,  oh  wand'rer,  how  fair  the  sun  doth  rise, 
And  in  its  sacred  glare  life  finds  its  own ; 
Whilst  thou  forsaken  one  dost  ever  moan 

And  thy  sad  heart's  lament  doth  shame  the  skies.' ' 

The  voice  then  dies ;  and  I  go  forth  anew 
To  face  the  heartless  world  and  wear  a  smile ; 
It  must  not  know  I'm  weeping  all  the  while; 

The  world  hates  the  one  who  dares  be  true. 


And  thus  with  smiling  face  and  weeping  heart 
I  tarry  here  and  play  my  woeful  part. 


[22] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  A  YOUTHFUL  TOILER 

Child  with  eyes  divinely  blue 
Like  the  summer  skies  above; 

In  thy  sweet  lips '  crimson  hue 
Lurketh  woe  instead  of  love. 

I  am  overcome  with  pain 
When  I  see  thee  here  today, 

Toiling  for  a  master's  gain, 
When  you  ought  to  be  at  play. 

'Tis  a  brutal,  heartless  age, 
Which  deprives  thee  of  thy  youth, 

And  enslaves  thee  for  a  wage, 
Far  too  small  for  thee  in  sooth. 

Ah,  that  I  were  brave  and  strong 
And  could  wrest  thee  from  the  tomb, 

Where  the  days  are  endless  long, 
And  thy  life  doth  be  in  gloom. 


[23] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  THE  MORNING  STAR 

I  do  not  greet  thee,  harbinger  of  day, 
Because  thy  glare  remindeth  me  of  toil; 

Of  long  and  weary  hours  of  dismay 
Where  every  thought  is  lost  in  strife  and  moil. 

To  bird  and  beast  thy  light  means  life  and  mirth, 
The  coming  of  a  bright  and  sunny  morn ; 

While  unto  me,  a  "crown-prince  of  the  earth," 
It  means  another  day  in  fact'ry  hell  forlorn. 

Thy  splendor  can  not  charm  a  weary  slave, 
Who  sells  unto  a  master  all  his  powers ; 

Nor  can  it  please  a  miner  in  his  grave, 
Who  wastes  beneath  the  earth  his  life's  best 
hours. 


[24] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


"CIVILIZATION" 

We  live  in  an  era  of  science  and  strife, 

Of  commerce  and  dollars  galore ; 
And  still  we  must  lead  such  a  wearisome  life, 

As  never  was  heard  of  before. 

Today,  hearts  have  turned  into  glittering  coin, 
And  minds  have  become  cash  accounts ; 

And  there  where  a  soul's  sacred  fire  would  burn, 
Today,  only  business  abounds. 

Where  beauty  once  dwelt  on  a  towering  plane. 

And  freedom  unfolded  her  wing ; 
Today,  awful  greed  and  corruption  and  pain, 

Linger  there,  and  to  Mammon  they  sing. 

Man  has  learnt  how  to  conquer  the  forest  and 
stream, 

And  mountains  must  weep  at  his  will ; 
Yet  happiness  ever  remains  but  a  dream, 

In  spite  of  man's  God-like  skill. 


[25] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


SONG  OF  THE  WAGE  SLAVE 

I  fain  would  sing  of  love  and  art,  my  dear, 
Had  not  mine  eyes  beheld  life's  bitter  train; 
Had  I  not  been  a  slave  since  early  youth 

And  spent  my  childhood  in  the  workshop  drear. 

Since  I  am  doomed  to  lead  this  barren  life, 

Creating  wealth  to  quench  the  master's  greed, 
I  can  but  sigh  for  other  hearts  that  bleed 

And  like  my  own  are  doomed  to  endless  strife. 

A  WISH 

Ah,  to  be  free  as  a  bird  in  its  flight, 

Midst  flowers  and  meadows  and  woods; 
Away  from  this  terrible  grasp  of  the  night, 

Where  never  a  ray  of  the  sun  comes  in  sight, 
And  man  drowns  in  miserable  moods. 

Away  from  the  city's  pestilent  air, 
The  people  so  sickly  and  pale; 

Away  from  the  haunts  of  pain  and  despair, 
Where  brotherly  feeling  is  awfully  rare, 

And  truth  gets  the  Cross  and  the  Nail. 


[26] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


SPRING  MUSINGS 

And  what  though  it  bloom  in  field  and  in  wood, 

And  what  though  the  air  hold  a  fragrance  of 

Spring, 

And  what  though  the  earth  smile  in  gladness  and 
joy, 

And  what  though  the  robin  again  taketh  wing? 
To  me  all  the  seasons  seem  closely  allied, 

Winter  and  summer,  springtime  and  fall; 
I  slave  in  a  dungeon  by  Mammon's  domain 

And  no  one  doth  fathom  the  depth  of  my  pain : 
Oh,  Life !   I  am  sick  of  it  all. 


[27] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


LAST  NIGHT 

Last  night  the  moon  a  crystal  crescent  shone, 
And  myriad  gems  the  heavens  bine' adorned ; 
And  like  an  outcast  by  the  world  scorned 

I  strolled  beside  the  lake  all  by  my  own. 

p 

Before  me,  trembling  in  the  moonlight's  glow, 
A  silver  sheet  lay  stretched  into  the  night; 
And  in  my  heart  I  felt  a  keen  delight 

To  be  alone,  for  crowds  fatigne  me  so. 


DEAD  LOVES 

Still  sweetly  lingers  on  the  snmmer  air, 
The  fragrance  of  a  rose  my  love  had  known ; 

Still  in  the  twilight  and  the  skies '  red  glare, 
Dead  loves  their  Inrid  destinies  bemoan. 

All  that  love  had,  it  gave  nngrndgingly, 
'Till  every  vestige  of  its  yonth  was  spent ; 

And  now  it  seeks  solace  in  dimmed  memory 
And  begs  of  time  his  blessed  sacrament. 


[28] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


ON  THE  EIVEE 

Here,  ah  here  my  heart  is  free, 

Here  my  soul  doth  rise  and  smile; 
Here  in  pure  sweet  ecstacy 

Happiness  is  mine  a  while. 
Far  is  every  earthly  care, 

Long  forgotten  strife  and  pain; 
Echoes  seem  to  fill  the  air, 

Saying,  "Life  is  not  in  vain." 
Here  I  am  the  real  self, 

Brave  and  strong  and  Godlike  "I" 
Brother  to  the  woodland  elf, 

Bird  and  beast  and  butterfly. 


[29] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


OCTOBER 

Clouds  hang  low 
Over  the  fields 
Kissed  by  cold 
Autumnal  winds; 
Gold-laden  boughs 
Swing  to  and  fro, 
Lashed  by  the  rod 
Boreas  wields. 

One  lonely  rose 
Adorns  the  waste, 
Mingling  its  red 
With  brown  and  gold ; 
And  far  and  near 
The  weary  year 
Laments  because 
'Tis  growing  old. 


[30] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THY  SONG 

Thy  song  of  long  ago 

Has  never  left  my  heart; 
I  hid  it  there,  and  so 

It  dominates  my  art, 
And  prompts  me  in  the  part 

Which  I  am  here  to  play ; 
And  often  when  the  day 

Seems  lost  in  somber  gray 
And  I  am  worn  with  cares, 

I  turn  to  those  sweet  hours 
With  thee  midst  pretty  bowers, 

And  I  hum  thy  summer  airs. 


[31] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


ASPIRATION 

This  is  not  mere  desire, 
This  is  the  soul's  sweet  fire ; 
Which  bids  me  love  the  higher, 

And  brings  the  fruit  of  dreams. 

As  all  my  days  seem  dreary, 
And  evenings  find  me  weary; 
'Tis  hope  that  keeps  me  cheery, 
Though  vain  my  hoping  seems. 

And  there  are  times  and  hours, 
When  all  my  pent-up  powers 
Like  early  April  flowers, 

Burst  forth  in  joyous  bloom. 

Then  like  a  giant  waking, 
I  feel  my  chains  are  breaking ; 
And  though  my  heart  is  aching, 
I  fear  no  earthly  doom. 


[32] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  CALL 

All  summer  long  we  toiled  away, 

From  early  morn  till  dusk  ; 
We  filled  the  masters'  bins  with  grain, 

And  we  were  fed  on  husk. 

We  built  the  masters'  mansions  grand 
And  kept  their  gardens  green  ; 

And  we  were  cooped  in  tenements 
And  crippled  by  machine. 

The  summer  days  have  come  and  gone 
And  now  shall  come  the  fall  ; 

Each  day  will  find  us  burdened  down 
With  labors  great  and  small. 

Our  lords  will  revel  in  their  wealth, 

And  wine  and  dine  in  style  ; 
And  we,  who  toil  and  dig  and  delve, 

Will  perish  all  the  while.         <[7/-  jj 


*  t  v  f  i-      *  -T^P 

For  them,  the  joys  of  life  and  ease, 

For  us,  the  pangs  and  pains  ; 
Oh,  brothers,  fellow  workers,  rise! 

And  let  us  break  the  chains. 


[33] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

0  MOTHER 

(.Translated  from  the   Yiddish  of  Mani  Leib.) 

The  horse  and  sleigh  beside  the  gate 

Stand  buried  half  in  snow; 
Within  the  cottage  mother  weeps 

And  wrings  her  hands  in  woe. 
"Farewell,  dear  Mother!    Dry  your  tears 

And  give  me  your  soft  hand; 
And  wish  thy  child  both  fame  and  wealth 

Within  the  golden  land.     .     .      .  " 

The  ship  drifts  o'er  the  surging  sea 

Mantled  by  misty  shroud ; 
Now  lost  in  a  bottomless  ocean  abyss, 

Now  sailing  into  a  cloud. 
Above  I  see  my  mother  weep, 

And  reaching  her  delicate  hand ; 
"0  child,  what  happiness  is  yours 

There  in  the  golden  land?" 

In  dust,  and  smoke,  and  grime  obscured, 
The  shop,  a  dungeon  stands ; 


[34] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


And  there,  from  early  morn  till  dusk, 
I  toil  with  brain  and  hands. 

And  toiling  I  see  my  mother  in  tears 
Pointing  with  delicate  hand — 

"How  can  you,  dear  child,  be  happy 
Here  in  the  golden  land?" 

The  tenement  house  is  silent  now, 

"Pis  midnight,  and  I  cannot  rest; 
0  mother,  come  and  rock  me  to  sleep 

As  of  old — with  my  head  on  your  breast. 
And  resting,  I  see  my  mother  in  tears, 

Smoothing  my  brow  with  her  hand ; 
"My  darling  child  there  is  no  joy 

Here  in  the  golden  land!     .     .     .  " 


[35] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  HEART'S  SONG 

;;  I 

What  matters  it  whether  I  sing  and  weep, 
The  world  lauds  the  ones  who  are  the  strong; 

It  matters  not  whether  my  grief  is  deep, 
This  is  no  age  for  song. 

• 

Yet  doth  the  heart  pour  out  its  monotones, 
As  doth  the  wind  in  cloudy  Autumn  nights ; 

And  in  its  melancholy,  tears  and  moans, 
It  endlessly  delights. 

:  r  -lOftto;  ^flJdS9T  blfA 

[JoomS 

>;I  9i9i1i  hlii(-)  ^nil-. 

fiebl<v  s 


[36] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  THE  WIND 

Hast  thou  no  soul,  oh  wind  in  treetops  weeping, 
Hast  thou  no  heart  which  bleedeth  as  doth  mine ; 

Oh,  can  it  be  that  thou,  thy  vigils  keeping, 
Dost  not  for  human  derelicts  repine  I       ;if  >£.? 


Dost  thou  not  weep  at  sight  of  haggard  faces, 
Of  struggling  souls  that  wither  in  the  dust; 

Can  it  be  true  that  in  thy  gentle  graces 
There  is  no  thought  of  human  greed  and  lustt 

• 

Methinks  I  hear  within  thy  midnight  moaning, 
The  cry  of  pain  within  the  human  clan ; 

And  then  I  see  the  sinful  world  atoning 
And  urging  on  the  brotherhood  of  man. 


[37] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

LADY  IN  WHITE 

(A  PORTRAIT) 

Out  of  a  gilded  frame  her  red  lips  smile, 
Radiantly  she  poses  with  a  lily  in  her  hand ; 

Her  alabaster  throat  and  eyes  beguile 

As  fair  a  soul  as  e'er  emerged  from  fairyland. 

In  years  to  come  these  brush  strokes  will  survive; 

And  many  a  day,  long  after  she  has  gone 
To  unknown  shores,  as  all  fair  creatures  must ; 

Her  smile,  her  look  will  still  remain  alive, 
Forever  challenging  grim  Death  and  dust 


[38] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


A  SONG  OF  TODAY 

This  is  the  song  of  the  stifled  soul, 
And  the  tears  that  flow  unseen ; 

This  is  the  lay  of  the  unreached  goal 
And  the  life  that  is  dark  and  mean. 

Out  of  the  depths  of  the  city's  mire 

It  echoes  its  woeful  sob; 
And  with  its  slow  consuming  fire, 

The  mind  of  its  peace  doth  rob. 

Here  youth  in  its  early  bloom  doth  fade, 
Chained  to  commercial  greed; 

And  Art  in  a  tomb  of  want  is  laid, 
And  none  the  heart's  voice  heed! 

Here  age  in  the  almshouse  counts  its  days, 

And  weeps  its  wasted  years ; 
Here  Death  his  time-worn  sickle  sways 

And  ends  one's  hopes  and  fears. 


[39] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE-  SEAMSTRESS 

She  dreams  in  vain  of  life's  most  precious  flowers, 
Hers  is  the  fate  to  straggle  on  unseen ; 

Hers  but  to  waste  the  day's  serenest  hours 
In  toil  and  sweat  beside  the  dark  machine. 

Time  looks  and  laughs  at  her  relentless  struggle, 
The  heap  of  garments  lying  on  the  floor, . 

The  bitter  game  she  plays  with  want  and  hunger, 
Where  Death  at  last  must  write  the  final  score. 

t  lit  Of)    : 

;  boo" 

,hhd  si  btitvrr  1o  <•{;•• 
!  f  > 

:£>  8-ti  8: 

')fj{.->fa  rnow-omft  aiii  rf 

baa  aoqorf  3*0110  sbiw  bnA 


[40] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


Gone  are  the  ages  heroic, 
No  giants  to  saber  and  lance, 

This  is  the  time  of  the  stoic, 

Gone  are  the  days  of  romance. 

Knighthood  has  fled  before  labor, 
Overalls  clothe  a  yonng  prince ; 

Lochinvar  clerks  for  his  neighbor, 
Trying  his  worth  to  evince. 

Juliet  slaves  in  a  laundry, 

Romeo  pushes  a  cart ; 
Valentine  toils  in  a  foundry, 

A  plumber  won  Cynthia's  heart. 

Elizabeth  punches  a  keyboard, 
Dolores  writes  credit  and  cash; 

Catherine's  throne  is  a  switchboard, 
And  Beatrice,  poor  girl,  "  slings  hash. 


[41] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


LIBERTY'S  PLIGHT 

0  the  earth  is  red  with  the  blood  of  men 
And  the  skies  are  dark  and  grim ; 

And  Liberty's  poor  prostrate  form, 
Lies  limp  on  the  chasm's  brim. 

No  more  her  fair  face  crowns  the  earth 
Her  voice  is  dead  and  dumb ; — 

Save  that  faint  echoes  from  her  past, 
Upon  the  breezes  come. 

Who  shall  revive  her  beauteous  face, 

Give  life  unto  her  breath, 
There's  still  a  chance  for  her  to  live, 

Tho'  e'er  so  close  to  death. 

Is  there  no  man  so  brave  and  true  , 

Who  might  arise  and  stand, 
And  reach  to  poor  faint  Liberty, 

A  strong  uplifting  hand  ? 


[42] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  UNEMPLOYED 

We  waited  long,  we  waited  long, 

A  haggard,  hungry  mob; 
Within  a  stuffy  corridor 

And  each  prayed  for  a  job. 
While  silently  I  vainly  prayed 

My  heart  would  cease  its  throb. 

At  last  the  well-fed  ' ( super ' '  came 
And  eyed  us  with  contempt ; 

That  sallow-faced,  grim  multitude, 
HI  clad ;  with  hair  unkempt, 

And  in  my  heart  I  vainly  prayed 
"  Would  God,  I  were  exempt." 

We  all  our  "pedigrees"  wrote  down, 
As  part  of  the  "red  tape;" 

The  masters  we  had  served  before, 
And  whence  our  last  escape ; 

While  silently  I  doubted  some 
Man's  prestige  o'er  the  ape. 


[43] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

IN  MEMOEIAM 

(J.  Howard  Moore,  Self-Slain,  June  19th,  1916.) 

Born  into  a  world  of  chaotic  strife, 

Thy  soul  did  languish  in  earth's  prison  house; 
Thou  wert  a  lover  of  all  human  life, 

And  human  pain  thy  protest  did  arouse. 

The  world  was  mad  in  its  eternal  haste, 
"Whilst  thou  stoodst  by  and  sighed  a  pitying 

breath ; 

Lamenting  always  on  life 's  ruin  and  waste, 
And  weeping  ever  over  -living  death. 

Would  I  might  own  the  power  to  express, 
The  deep  regard  my  spirit  bore  for  thine ; — 

I  would  with  all  my  own  soul's  tenderness, 
Thy  deathless  soul  enshrine. 


[44] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


A  SONG 

Brother,  has  life  been  too  hard  an  endurance, 
Has  sin  and  temptation  enshrouded  your  mind ; 

Take  hope  in  this  humble  and  heartfelt  assurance, 
That  God  will  not  punish,  for  He  is  too  kind. 

Your  life  is  your  own  to  mar  or  to  sweeten, 
But  ere  you  can  do  so  remember  the  fact, 

That  most  of  religions  are  old  and  worm-eaten, 
And  should  not  determine  your  thought  or  your 
act. 

And    God   does    not    live   in    the    temples    and 
churches, 

Nor  does  He  sanction  the  demagogue's  art; 
But  out  of  the  love  in  our  lives  He  emerges 

And  all  that  He  asks  for  is  cleanness  of  heart. 


[45] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


AT  EVENTIDE 

The  day  is  drawing  to  the  western  hills 
And  purple  cloudlets  throng  the  summer  sky; 
A  meadowlark's  sweet  warble  from  on  high 

My  careworn  soul  with  inspiration  fills. 

This  is  my  hour  of  rest,  my  one  sweet  hour, 
Removed  from  all  the  worries  of  the  day; 
Now  all  discordant  thought  is  cast  away, 

And  nature  heals  the  heart  with  silent  power. 


RESURRECTION 

When  the  wind  is  in  the  treetops, 

Singing  gladly  of  the  spring, 
And  the  birds  are  chirping  gayly, 

And  the  trees  are  blossoming, 
Then  my  heart  leaps  up  in  joyance, 

Shedding  pain  and  earthly  woe, 
And  my  soul  is  resurrected, 

From  the  winter's  cold  and  snow. 


[46] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


A  TOILER'S  SPRINGTIME 

Spring  and  sun  and  bird-song, 
Through  my  window  smile ; 
And  a  bit  of  heaven, 
Blue  and  white  above. 
But  I  must  keep  on  toiling, 
Struggling  all  the  while; 
Just  a  humble  day  drudge, 
Without  hope  or  love. 


THE  GARDEN 

How  fair  and  green  the  garden  lies, 

How  tranquilly  it  sleeps, 
For  vagrant  bees  and  butterflies 

A  paradise  it  keeps. 

And  in  the  night  unto  the  moon 
Its  heart  and  soul  lie  bare ; 

While  Pan's  enchanting  melodies 
Pervade  its  sacred  air. 


[47] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


VANQUISHED 

Like  to  the  rose  that  fades, 

Like  to  the  dying  day; 
One  by  one  the  years  and  all  their  dreams, 

Are  fleeting  far  away. 

Naught  save  the  deed  undone, 

The  hopeless  wish  unfilled ; — 
Life  like  a  vain  resolve, 

Is  slowly  stilled. 

Once  like  a  ruling  prince,  in  fair  domain, 
The  Superman  defied  all  earthly  things ; 

And  now  in  earthly  agony  and  pain, 
He  crawls  on  broken  wings. 

-tl 

• 

.'Ufi    : 


[48] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


PERHAPS 

I  may  be  born  again 
In  some  far  after  life 
To  see  my  dream  take  form ; 
The  bitter  thought  no  more 
Will  pierce  my  aching  brain. 

I  shall  not  be  the  hater 

NOT  the  ardent  lover, 

But  like  the  ripple 

Of  the  woodland  brook, 

Dashing  alike  over  rocks 

And  thorns  and  meadowlands. 

The  real  "me,"  defiant  and  serene, 

Shall  mock  oblivion. 


[49] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


WHEN  I  AM  GONE 

Say  this  of  me  when  I  am  gone, 
Into  the  land  of  peace  and  rest; 

Just  this,  "He  too  loved  Beauty  once, 
And  was  by  her  enchantment  blest. ' ' 

And  do  not  weep  upon  my  tomb, 
Nor  cry  against  the  hand  of  Fate; 

Just  say,  "He  lived  the  rose's  bloom, 
And  even  thorns  he  could  not  hate." 


[50] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  THE  BROOK 

Murmur,  murmur,  little  brook, 

On  your  busy  way, 
Through  the  forest's  solitude 

All  the  live-long  day. 

Far  away  from  wretchedness, 

Misery  and  strife ; 
Flowing,  babbling,  happily 

Dancing  on  through  life. 

Dancing  on  so  merrily 
Near  a  peasant's  cot; 

Giving  music  to  my  soul, 
Oh,  thy  happy  lot! 


[51] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


AUTUMN  ON  THE  ROAD 

The  summer's  beauty  is  no  more, 
Its  warm  blue  sky  has  vanished ; 

And  in  the  trees  the  wind  doth  roar, 
And  flowers  sweet  are  banished. 

Now  autumn  spreads  its  golden  hue, 
In  solemn  way  enshrining ; 

The  forest's  green,  the  distant  blue, 
And  all  the  ivy's  twining. 

The  lonely  road  lies  sorrowing 
For  Summer's  happy  presence; 

It  yearns  for  children's  frolicking, 
To  break  its  awful  silence. 

It  longs  to  hear  their  voices  sweet, 
On  summer's  echo  ringing; 

And  loves  to  feel  their  tiny  feet, 
As  they  walk  on  while  singing. 

But  now  the  Summer  is  no  more, 
Its  warm  blue  sky  has  vanished ; 

And  in  the  trees  the  wind  doth  roar, 
And  flowers  sweet  are  banished. 


[52] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

THE  EOCK  AND  THE  STOEM 

(A  LEGEND) 

In  a  desert  far  away, 
There  stood  a  rock  so  old  and  gray; 
It  knew  not  love,  nor  knew  it  hate, 
Nor  cared  it  much  for  time  or  fate. 

But  once,  a  storm  had  come  along, 
And  to  this  rock  poured  out  its  song ; 
So  sweet  and  sad  this  song  had  proved. 
That  even  the  stone  to  tears  was  moved. 


Gentle  reader,  have  no  fears, 
Stones  are  seldom  moved  to  tears. 


[53] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


AFTEBWARDS 

When  this  thing  is  over  and  the  world  is  sane 

again, 
We  shall  reflect  with  horror  on  all  the  needless 

pain. 

We  shall  abhor  the  pages,  chronicles  of  blood 
Spilt  in  the  name  of  kaisers,  countries,  flags  and 

God. 

And  man  shall  live  in  freedom  and  love  old  Mother 

Earth, 

And  no  one  shall  bemoan  the  accident  of  birth. 
The  world  shall  be  one  nation  on  a  cooperative 

plan; 
Guided  by  one  edict — the  Brotherhood  of  Man. 


[54] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  PIANIST 

To  day,  I  felt  that  I  had  lived, 
My  mind  was  at  its  ease ; 

I  heard  the  sweetest  melody 
Borne  on  the  summer's  breeze. 

My  heart  was  full  of  joyousness, 
O'erfilled  with  music  sweet; 

I  felt  such  sacred  harmony, 
Which  I  can  scarce  repeat. 

A  child,  and  yet  so  talented, 
Such  power  in  her  touch ; 

She  thrilled  me  to  such  ecstasy 
I  felt,  I  lived  so  much. 

I  lived,  unconscious  of  myself, 
Unsoiled,  by  worldly  slime ; 

I  wandered  far  from  earthliness. 
Into  a  realm  sublime. 

Mysterious,  was  all  I  heard, 
So  endless,  pure  and  calm ; 

It  left  a  loving  memory, 

That  e  'er  my  life  will  charm. 


[55] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  PEDDLEE 

He  stood  all  day  with  a  basket, 
On  a  corner  of  the  street ; 

A  haggard,  hungry  creature, 
The  portrait  of  defeat. 

The  housewives  hurried  by  him, 
They  would  not  buy  his  stock ; 

All  day  he  waited  vainly, 
And  now  'twas  eight  o'clock. 

So  he  staggered  homeward  sadly, 
To  rest  his  weary  head ; 

All  night  he  moaned  and  muttered- 
At  dawn  they  found  him  dead. 


[56] 


(A  BALLAD) 

He  sought  a  land  where  he  might  be, 

Without  the  despot's  rule; 
And  found  that  man  was  only  free, 

In  hooks  he  read  at  school. 

He  meant  no  harm,  nor  fatal  day, 
To  those  who  rule  the  land; 

But  sought  to  teach  a  hetter  way ; 
To  make  men  understand. 

And  so  one  day  it  come  to  pass 
That  he  was  filled  with  drub; 

Because  a  teacher  of  the  mass, 
Was  silenced  by  the  "club.'* 

He  went  to  see  the  legal  chief, 

And  ask  him  to  explain ; 
0  foolish  youth !     'Twas  his  belief 

It  would  not  be  in  vain. 

But  tyrants  fear  a  fatal  end, 
And  cowards  woe  surmise ; 

So  Shippy  clutched  with  forceful  fend, 
And  took  him  by  surprise. 

[57] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


He  held  him  as  he  would  a  beast, 
That  sought  to  do  some  harm ; 

And  all  the  time  his  fear  increased 
And  made  his  wrath  more  warm. 

Then  drawing  out  a  bloody  gun, 
He  pierced  the  youthful  heart; 

For  shooting  unto  him  is  fun, 
"Who  knows  the  killing  art. 

And  when  he  saw  the  youthful  form, 

Lie  prostrate  at  his  feet ; 
He  aimed  once  more  the  gun  still  warm, 

And  did  his  act  repeat. 

And  thus  a  soul  went  on  its  way, 

The  victim  of  a  fyke ; 
For  souls  must  seek  their  judgment  day, 

And  brutish  men  must  strike. 

But  as  we  have  no  right  to  judge, 
Or  wield  the  chastening  rod ; 

So  let  us  entertain  no  grudge, 
But  leave  the  job  to  God. 


[58] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


HITCH  YOUR  WAGON 

Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star, 

Strive  to  be  a  master  mind ; 
They  who  wish  to  travel  far, 

Must  not  dare  to  lag  behind. 

Life  is  merely  one  great  way, 
Between  darkness  and  void; 

Therefore  let  thy  soul  have  sway, 
And  the  heart's  voice  shall  be  heard. 

Few  there  be  who  know  the  law, 
That  one  can  make  one's  life  or  mar; 

Who  would  from  Fortune  favor  draw, 
Must  hitch  his  wagon  to  a  star. 


[59] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


LAMENTATION 

The  wind  is  wailing  at  my  garden  gate ; 
And  all  the  tears  that  human  eyes  have  known, 
And  all  the  souls  that  in  their  silence  moan, 

And  all  the  sad  grim  derelicts  of  fate, 

And  all  whose  broken  hearts  are  turned  to 
stone, 

Gather  around  me,  and  forever  wait.   .   . 

What  can  I  give  them?    Poor  hungry  hearts ! 

How  can  I  feed  their  unfulfilled  desires  ? 

When  in  my  soul  a  thousand  smouldering  fires 
Are  nigh  extinct  amidst  life's  noisy  marts? 


[60] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


SPRING  CAME 

Spring  came,  a  youthful  nymph,  and  dancing  o'er 

lawn, 

A  fairy  queen  in  all  her  grand  array ; 
She  clothed  the  woodland  in  a  robe  of  dawn 

And  drove  grim  Winter's  snow  and  pain  away. 

*     *     *     * 

The  earth  awoke,  and  in  a  song  of  praise, 

The  wind  poured  out  his  heart  on  flowery  dell, 

Proclaiming  loudly  through  the  length 'ning  days 
That  nature  sits  enthroned,  and  all  is  well. 


AN  AUTUMN  DAY 

Sweetheart,  the  summer  is  over, 

Pale  glimmers  the  harvest  moon ; 
The  bees  have  forsaken  the  clover, 

The  birds  will  fly  southward  soon. 
Winter  will  come ;  and  the  nightwind 

May  utter  his  mournful  refrain ; 
Yet  do  not  despair,  for  I  know  dear, 

Love  must  forever  remain. 


[61] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


A  PASTORAL 

Soon  the  rose  will  bloom, 
Sing,  my  heart, 
Oh,  sing,  my  heart ; 

June  days  banish  gloom, 
Sing,  my  heart, 
Oh !  sing  my  heart ! 

Skies  will  smile  above  me, 
And  on  those  who  love  me, 

Sing,  my  heart, 

For  life  and  art 
Are  born  again  today. 


[62] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


FIGHT 

— News  Item, 


Give  them  the  rouge  and  lipstick, 

Polish  their  pretty  nails ; 
Sprinkle  their  gowns  in  perfume, 

Nothing  else  avails. 

Watch  them  go  forth  to  battle 

Radical  thought  and  deed ; 
Workers  are  naught  but  cattle, 
Why  should  they  wish  to  be  freed? 

Give  them  the  rouge  and  lipstick, 

Polish  their  pretty  nails ; 
Sprinkle  their  souls  in  perfume, 

Nothing  else  avails.    .    . 


[63] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  RUSSIAN  SHADOW 

Over  the  wide  steppes 
The  wind  howls  in  the  snow ; 
And  Death  hovers  over  the  huts, 
And  only  carrion  crows 
Are  always  cawing,  cawing; 

Tillers  and  toilers  dying, 
Slowly  starving  and  dying ; 
There  in  the  Volga  valley, 
Where  Russia  weeps  in  blood 
And  life  is  down  for  naught. 

A  Christian  world  marvels 
At  the  havoc  it  has  wrought ; — 
With  blockade,  war  and  falsehood 
It  has  slain  defenseless  babes 
And  starved  their  nursing  mothers. 

Oh,  bitter  grim  repentance 
Forever  must  pursue 
The  diplomats  and  statesmen 
Who  knew  too  well ! 
Who  knew!   . 


[64] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


FLATBUSH 

In  fashionable  Flatbush  one  May  afternoon 
I  saw  the  orchids  blooming  in  the  sun; 
While  Beauty  led  me  till  the  day  was  done, 

And  from  the  sea  arose  a  crescent  moon. 

My  soul  adored  the  splendid  Flatbush  homes, 
The  lovely  bowers  and  the  cool  green  walks ; — 
But  when  I  thought  of  homes  where  hunger 

stalks, 

It  seemed  that  child-blood  went  to  build  these 
domes. 


One  feels  accursed  because  his  inner  being 
Forever  weeps  at  sight  of  jades  and  silk; — 

And  perfumed  poodles  to  the  mind's  eye  bring, 
A  hungry  slum  child's  weak  and  meagre  milk. 


[65] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


WHERE  TO? 

What  is  this  life  of  endless  beginnings, 
This  constant  seeking  for  something  afar ; 

Where  is  the  madman  who  doth  conceive  it, 
The  author  of  earth's  eternal  scarf 

Bides  he  aloft  in  his  cozy  heaven, 
Smiling,  sarcastic,  at  mortal  woe, 

Or  is  he  aware  of  this  dwarf  existence, 
The  harrowing  struggles  here  below? 


[66] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


DANIEL  DE  LEON 

IN   MEMOEIAM 

And  art  thou  dead,  oh  great  soul,  brave  and  true, 
Thou  who  didst  scorn  the  privileged  and  the 

strong, 
Or  hast  thou  gone,  as  goes  the  minstrel's  song, 

Into  the  realm  where  skies  are  always  blue  ? 

I  can  not  think  of  thee  as  one  who  died, 
For  everywhere  thy  works  loom  large  and 

bright; 
I  can  not  think  that  the  eternal  night 

Hath  gulped  thy  being's  kindliness  and  pride. 


[  67  ] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THEY  WHO  WEEP 

\ 

They  who  weep  in  the  night,  my  love, 
Oh,  those  who  weep  in  the  night; — 

The  lonely  lives  and  the  weary  ones 
Who  wage  their  bitter  fight! 

Would  God  hath  given  me  power  to  heal, 
Ay,  power  to  cheer  sad  souls ; 

To  teach  them  love  of  a  great  ideal 
And  point  them  to  their  goals. 


KINDRED  SPIRITS 

Though  words  were  not  uttered  between  them, 
The  gaze  in  her  eyes  told  it  all ; — 

Orbs  that  were  deep  as  the  ocean, 

Betraying  her  inner  devotion, 

Her  spirit  in  sacred  emotion, 
His  own  soul's  kinship  did  call. 


[68] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


NATURE 

It  needs  no  word  to  sound  its  loveliness, 
It  is  not  longing  to  be  heard  or  sung; 
The  springs  and  summers  leave  it  unafraid, 
It  heeds  not  man  *s  lament  nor  worldly  wrong. 


VIGIL 

Last  night  I  sat  beside  thee,  oh,  my  own, 
And  saw  thy  frail  young  form  in  slumber  lost ; 

While  thy  fair  bosom  heaved  in  restless  tone, 
Like  some  sad  bark  by  stormy  billow  tossed. 

Thy  face  contained  a  look  of  weariness, 
A  curse  was  written  in  its  every  line ; 

It  made  one  conscious  of  the  bitterness 
Love  holds  within  her  sweet  and  sacred  wine. 


[69] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


OCTOBER  IDYLL 

When  the  sun  shines  and  a  sonth  breeze  blows 
And  the  heavens  are  blue, 
There  comes  a  peace ;  the  kind  that  only  a  poet 
knows. 

Something  within  the  heart  chants  a  melody, 
It  sings  of  reconcilement  to  earth, 
And  one  grows  glad  of  life.     . 

It  is  enough  to  know,  that  there  are  days  like  these 
When  wounded  hearts  are  healed ; — 
Enough  to  feel  the  caress  of  the  breeze. 

Two  yellow  butterflies  and  two  snow  white 
Are  hovering  over  the  meadow ; 
And  this  in  late  October. 

When  the  green  is  slowly  dying,  and  crickets  are 

asleep, 
These  ethereal  vagabonds  are  still  in  love  witK* 

life, 
Not  heeding  Winter's  footsteps. 


[70] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


Beauty  comes  on  nimble  feet, 
Treading  lightly  on  the  fields ; 
She  twangs  her  eternal  melodies  into  one's  soul. 

Once  in  October,  long  ago, 

Beside  a  bonfire  bright, 
When  stars  were  singing  in  the  sky 

Sweet  rhapsodies  of  night, 
We  sat  upon  a  tuft  of  grass 

And  gazed  into  the  fire, 
And  inwardly  we  conjured  up 

Great  castles  of  desire.    .    . 

And  now  we  are  old, 

Not  in  years  but  in  dreams ; — 
Withering  slowly  each  day. 

Like  to  a  rose  in  October  garden; 
Stifled  in  morass  of  material  things ; — 

And  dumb  as  the  vaults  of  man  are  dumb 
Beside  fair  Beauty's  soul.   .   . 


[71] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


WE  HAVE  NOT  FAILED 

We  have  not  failed,  we  have  not  failed,  oh 

brothers, 

Tho '  dim  as  night  and  cold  the  world  appears ; 
We  have  not  flinched,  we  have  not  feared  the 

struggle, 
And  victory  is  ours  with  the  years. 

And  though  the  fools  may  jeer  us  in  derision, 
And  plutocrats  display  their  bitter  wrath, 

We  shall  not  leave  the  sacred  task  unfinished, 
Nor  fail  to  point  mankind  the  sunward  path. 

We  have  not  failed,  we  have  not  failed,  oh 
brothers, 

Tho '  dim  as  night  and  cold  the  world  appears ; 
We  shall  not  flinch,  we  shall  not  fear  the  struggle, 

'Till  victory  is  ours  with  the  years. 


[72] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


SOUL  OF  A  SHOPKEEPER 

What  shall  repay  the  inner  woe, 
The  deep  depression  of  one's  soul? 

Who  shall  the  spirit's  anguish  know 
Of  him  who  finds  no  goal? 

The  shekels  come,  the  credits  rise, 
The  coffers  bulge  with  earthly  goods; 

These  in  exchange  for  summer  skies 
And  God's  green  woods.    .    . 

Oh,  grant  me  respite,  Mother  Earth, 
Prom  endless  days  in  busy  mart; 

To  live  and  rest  and  know  the  worth 
Of  quiet  mind  and  peace  of  heart.    . 


[73] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


"OPEN  FOE  DAILY  MEDITATION" 

They  come  on  the  wings  of  desire 
To  silence  their  innermost  pain — 

Haggard  and  heartsore  and  bleeding 
Victims  of  barter  and  gain .    .    . 

They  kneel  in  the  dusk  of  the  chapel 

To  ease  their  careworn  souls — 
Away  from  the  city's  mire 

Where  all  play  pitiful  roles.    .    . 

The  come  to  shed  their  burdens 

Before  a  kindly  God — 
And,  leaving  the  silent  altars, 

Go  back  to  toil  and  plod.    .   . 


[74] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

THE  IRISH  MAETYBS 

(Written  after  the  Easter  Uprising.) 

Thy  are  not  dead 

Who  rose  to  smite  a  king, 
Who  dared  oppose 

The  rule  of  duke  and  lord ; — 
The  valiant  band 

Who  gave  their  all  for  love, 
That  Freedom's  name 

Might  be  a  living  word. 

Thy  are  not  dead 

Who  split  their  noble  blood, 
To  free  a  people 

From  oppression's  thumb; 
For  Tyrants  only  ever  really  die 

And  only  cowards  stay  docile    and  dumb. 

Their  voices  will  resound 

Across  the  years  to  come 
And  rouse  the  youth 

Of  Brings  Emerald  Isle; 


[75] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


To  break  the  yoke 

That  England's  cruel  hand 
Had  forged  about 

Their  hapless  nation's  throat. 

They  are  not  dead; — 
These  noble  Irish  sons; 

Their  names  must  live 
As  long  as  Liberty .   .   . 


[76] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


SILENCE 

Silence  reigns  on  the  hill 

And  the  heart  is  at  rest ; 

Nature  adorned  in  her  glory, 

Sweet  and  divinely  dressed, 

Lulls  the  heart's  hunger 

And  stills  the  throbbing  pain : 

Lingering  cloudlets  remain 

While  the  sky  in  the  west 

Is  adorned  in  a  red-golden  robe  again. 

Now  it  were  well  to  lie  down 

And  forever  remain, 

Thoughtless  and  wordless 

A  being  unmoved : — 

Now  it  were  well  to  forget 

The  days  one  had  suffered  and  loved; 

It  were  joy  to  renounce  mortal  form 

And  enter  into  the  silence 

One  ever  hungers  after, 

In  life's  eternal  storm. 


[77] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


IN  MEMORY  OF  HORACE  TRAUBEL 

Like  to  a  fallen  leaf 

Thy  mortal  form  hath  dropped, 

Wearied  of  Summer  splendor 

And  the  year's  last  breath. 

Firm  in  the  faith  of  immortality 

And  brimming  over  with  the  love  of  life 

Thou  smile st  even  now 

Upon  the  sleep  called  "Death." 

For  thee,  oh  Horace  Traubel 

There  is  no  end  of  all. 


Love  cradled  you  within  her  tender  lap ; 
And  all  thy  days  were  but  a  stepping  stone, 
From  Love's  one  planet  to  the  Cosmic  Whole. 


[78] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


MODERN  LOVE 

It  turns  to  hate,  because  its  spirit  yearneth 
To  enslave,  to  hinder  and  to  bind: — 

'Tis  not  content  to  dominate  the  body, 
But  ever  striveth  to  possess  the  mind. 

And  until  man  may  see  the  dawn  of  freedom 
And  not  until  the  present  passes  by; — 

Love  must  forever  be  a  tyrant, 
Not  merely  that,  but  must  remain  a  lie .    . 


[79] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


SUNSET 

The  sea  descends  to  silent  night, 
The  skies  are  crimson  in  the  west; 

While  from  the  east  a  lonely  light 
Guides  the  homeward  ships  to  rest. 

The  sandy  beach  lies  blushing  gold 
And  gentle  wavelets  kiss  the  shore; 

And  myriad  souls  their  wings  unfold, 
The  sweet  night  to  adore .    .    . 


[80] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


THE  MARCH  WIND 

Yes,  I  have  seen  the  sunset  wielding  a  brush, 
Dipped  in  the  purest  dye  of  purple  and  gold; 
And  tinting  the  snow  clad  meadows  on  March 

afternoons, 
In  wonderful  patterns  that  flashed  through  the 

eye  to  one 's  soul. 

And  I've  listened  at  night  to  the  March  wind's 

echoing  sobs 
Bemoaning  the  price  that  we  pay  for  our 

journeying  on.    .    . 
Or  lulling  the  sleepless  ones  slowly  to  slumber  and 

rest; 
Effacing  their  daily  burdens  of  sorrow  and  strife. 

Then  the  gnawing  and  yearning  and  hunger  came 

on  me  again 
And  bade  me  go  forth  with  the  muses  to  wander 

once  more ; — 

To  chant  as  of  old  to  an  age  of  unlistening  ears 
And  twang  on  my  lyre  the  March  wind's  echoing 

sob. 


[81] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


(IN  WARTIME) 

"Pis  Spring  and  the  earth  is  reborn  with  joy, 

The  skies  are  alive  and  smile; 
While  shadows  of  sorrow  enshroud  my  soul 

And  torture  me  all  the  while. 

My  heart  goes  weeping  over  the  hills 

For  those  who  went  away 
To  die  in  far  off  battlefields 

Beyond  the  oceans  grey. 

And  I  cannot  banish  from  my  mind 

One  fair  unfinished  thing 
That  lies  beneath  the  greening  earth 

And  ne'er  shall  see  the  Spring.    .    . 


[82] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

JOHN  KEED 
(IN  MEMOEIAM) 

Spirit  of  youth  that  flingest  far  thy  banners, 
To  bind  a  bleeding  world  into  one ; — 

Scion  of  races  of  pioneer  pilgrims 
Who  dared  to  seek  new  freedom  in  the  sun .    .    . 

Thine  was  the  love  that  hath  no  earthly  ending, 

Starlike  and  faithful  even  unto  death ; 
Ever  the  oppressed  and  downtrodden 

defending, — 

Shouting  human  brotherhood  with  life's  last 
breath .    .    . 

Kin  to  the  lightning  that  pierces  the  heavens 
When  earth  lies  enshrouded  in  storm  and  in 
stress ; 

Thine  was  the  spirit  that  hell  could  not  conquer, — 
It  liveth  forever  to  love  and  to  bless . 


[83] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


IN  WARTIME 

Ay,  verily  has  it  come  to  pass 

That  one  must  silence  e'en  his  soul; 

Lest  one  speak  as  Christ  hath  spake 
And  play  the  martyr's  role.    .   . 

Methinks  that  e'en  the  Decalogue, 
Should  now  be  carefully  revised; 

To  fit  the  spirit  of  the  day ; — 
The  world  uncivilized. 


[84] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


FIRST  LOVE 

Serene  as  the  summer  night  her  fancies  fly 
Over  the  city  roofs  to  the  great  West; 

There  in  a  flowery  lane  by  moonbeams  kissed, 
Her  weary  soul  seeks  rest. 

Memories  linger  still  within  her  heart 
And  mock  her  spirit  like  some  wingless  dove; 

They  seem  to  doubt  that  one  so  buffeted, 
Should  e'er  have  known  first  love. 

First  love !    The  very  thought  is  maddening, 
When  but  the  ashes  on  the  hearth  remain ; — 

And  in  the  silences  no  echo  falls, 

To  ease  the  yearning  and  the  inner  pain.    .   . 


[85] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


NIGHT  IN  CHICAGO 

The  wind  blows  out  of  the  lake  tonight 

And  weeps  in  the  treetops  tall ; 
In  tones  that  smart  the  lonely  heart 

As  I  list  to  the  raindrops  fall. 

And  the  song  that  the  air  contains  tonight 

Is  one  of  eternal  woe ; — 
For  those  who  roam  and  have  no  home 

When  wintry  tempests  blow.   .   . 


[86] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

AWAITING  A  CHILD 

(November  19th,  1914.) 

God  grant  me  this  one  wish, 

The  fire  of  my  soul; 
Ease  my  loved  one 's  pain 

Lord  help  her  reach  the  goal. 

And  lead  the  new-born  soul  aright 
In  all  its  wandering  on  earth ; 

That  it  may  add  to  human  light, 
That  it  may  be  of  real  worth. 

Oh  may  it  be  a  soul  of  love 

To  ease  the  world's  pain  and  woe; 

And  may  thy  guidance  from  above 
Teach  it  how  to  live  and  grow.    .    . 


[87] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 

THE  MEADOWLARK  AND  THE  POET 

(Translated  from  the  Yiddish  of  B.  Kovner.) 

The  sky  is  blue,  a  potter's  field, — 

A  green  and  blooming  tree, 
And  by  its  side  a  silent  grave, 

Wherein  there  rests  a  dream. 

A  mother's  dream,  her  only  son, 

How  deep  her  grief  doth  smart, 
The  earth  had  gulped  her  only  child 

Together  with  her  heart.    .    . 

A  poet  was  her  only  son, 

Whose  soul  the  whole  day  long, 
Did  burn  and  bloom  eternally 

And  gave  itself  to  song. 

A  freedom  song,  a  song  of  strife, 

A  song  that  called  for  joy; — 
That  sowed  a  myriad  ray  of  hope 

In  heart  of  man  and  boy. 


[88] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


The  poet  dead,  yet  one  still  hears 
His  sweet  enchanting  lyre; — 

'Tis  caried  by  a  meadowlark 
Who  sings  and  does  not  tire.   .   . 

The  meadowlark  swings  upon  the  bough, 

That  overhangs  the  tomb; 
And  sings  the  poet's  plaintive  notes 

And  dreams  the  poet's  dream.    .   . 


[89] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


BOY  AND  MAN 

One  was  a  youth  with  eyes  turned  heavenward 
And  one  a  man  who  drank  the  bitter  lees ; 

Life  smiled  upon  the  boy  and  urged  him  on, 
The  man  with  head  bowed  low,  crawled  on  his 
knees. 

Each  day  the  twain  were  toiling  on  their  upward 
path 

'Gainst  rain  and  storm  and  thorny  hedges  cruel ; 
The  youth  walked  firmly  to  attain  his  goal, 

The  man  with  Fate  had  fought  his  bitter  duel. 


[90] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


AUTUMN 

AT   THE   SEASHOEB 

' '  The  end  of  summer,  alas ! 
All  fair  things  must  fade:" 
Sing  the  waves  a  dirge 
Upon  the  vacant  beach. 

The  bungalows  dark  and  still 
Are  perched  upon  the  hill; — 
Where  is  the  joy  and  laughter 
Of  a  day  ago?.  .  . 

The  wind  is  howling 

In  the  chimney  tops 

Of  the  deserted  cottages; 

Proclaiming  the  winter's  approach. 

And  ice-born  sirens  and  fawns 
Gather  upon  the  beach 
And  frolic  joyously 
Beneath  the  Autumn  clouds. 


[91] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TREAD  OF  THE  FEOST 

The  frost  came  slowly  stealing  o'er  the  hill, 
Like  hungry  tiger  seeking  food  in  vain; 
It  brought  unbounded  agony  and  pain 

To  flower  and  bud  which  it  would  slowly  kill. 

Next  morn  the  sun  rose  on  a  barren  waste 
And  brought  the  teardrops  to  nasturtium 

cheeks ; 
Then  came  the  snowdrifts  and  the  weary  weeks 

And  Boreas  through  the  woodland  came  in  haste. 


[92] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


It  is  not  I,  it  is  not  I 

Who  ever  doth  aspire ; 
To  things  beyond  the  human  reach, 

In  madness  of  desire. 

Mine  be  a  life  of  toil  and  love 
And  joy  in  earthly  things; 

Fair  mother  Earth  suffice th  me. 
Let  angels  have  their  wings.    .    . 

May  sear-eyed  mortals  strive  in  vain 
To  reach  some  heavenly  sphere ; 

I  need  not  seek  for  Godliness, — 
I  find  it  all  right  here .    .    . 


[93] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


'A  WIND-TOSSED  ROSE-LEAF"— Hafiz 

Fluttering  in  the  wind, 
A  rose-leaf  passed  me  by ; 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  it 
Through  my  restless  eye. 

Rose-leaf  hast  a  fate 
Sure  as  day,  thought  I, 

To  live  eternally, 

To  live  and  never  die . 


[94] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


MY  ESTATE 

The  homeless  man  halted  my  progress 

As  I  was  surveying  the  town, 

"Give  me  the  price  of  a  hed," 

He  stammeringly  said. 

I  dug  into  my  pockets 

And  found  a  lyric  poem ; — 

But  I  dared  not  offer  it. 


[95] 


SPIRIT    OF    THE    STORM 


TO  DEATH 

Oh,  Death,  I  do  not  fear  thee 
Art  kindlier  far  than  Life, 

Thou  soothest  every  bosom 

That's  torn  with  pain  and  strife. 

Thou  leadest  king  and  beggar 
•   To  peace  and  sweet  abode; 
And  all  must  end  their  journeys 
Upon  thy  starlit  road. 


[96] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9 — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


TT 

//ETi^,         •  "<IA 

JLOS  ANGT 


JES D  ODSOH  — 

3507   Spirit  of  the 

,£648-8 storm  and — 

other  poems. 


A  000  920  307  6 


PS 

3507 

D6488 


